I hate myself. I am a fucktard. It is only the 2nd of July and already I am frustrated and rattling the bars of this cage. I thought of no less than five million things I suddenly urgently had to buy now that I am not allowed to buy anything for the whole month of July. I want hair dye (don't care what colour just want some) I want a Moroccan glass in which to store my toothpaste, I want new hot pink fish net socks after tearing a whole in my current pair, I want a pair of nifty purple rubber wellies and a new and exciting beret, I want THINGS.
I have already broken the Man Embargo by agreeing to meet the editor of SeeSee Magazine to discuss his excellent magazine over coffee. I made the appointment in good faith thinking Sunday was the 30th of June but I was in fact incorrect. I desperately want to break the Man Embargo again and reply to two very curious comments left on this blog by men but I can't, that would be a blatant breach of the rules and I would have to punish myself and then I might cry. I don't even know what the punishment would be. Maybe not spending any money, interacting with any men and keeping to a strict schedule of writing blind film reviews for the whole month of July? Ha! I really am a fucktard.
I have information
About the Olympia milkbar in Stanmore. In her recent book Strawberry Hills Forever Vanessa Berry talks about her obsession with the milkbar and its mysterious owner. Why is it so decrepit and what's with all the empty chocolate boxes? I have information.
Apparently the shop used to be owned by the ashen creepy man and his brother. His brother died fifteen years ago but not before extracting a promise from ashen creepy man that he would continue to run the shop, forever. Since the brother's death the cinema next door shut down, Parramatta Rd doubled its traffic and no one goes there anymore, except Vanessa Berry and the terminally curious.
I think I'm going to make a special trip.
Apparently the shop used to be owned by the ashen creepy man and his brother. His brother died fifteen years ago but not before extracting a promise from ashen creepy man that he would continue to run the shop, forever. Since the brother's death the cinema next door shut down, Parramatta Rd doubled its traffic and no one goes there anymore, except Vanessa Berry and the terminally curious.
I think I'm going to make a special trip.
Toothpaste
Today someone called me the blogger's blogger. I find this both hilarious and inaccurate as though I was some kind of outstanding toothpaste and better at this than I am. But thanks anyway.
Does noone know what a cordax is?
Good lord that was horrible! I am sitting in bed happily reading a children's novel and munching on pirate chocolate but unfortunately I spied some crumbs on my chest. I eagerly licked my finger and went about rounding them up and stuffing them in my mouth thinking they were chocolate crumbs but they turned out to be flakes of tobacco. Once again I am sitting in bed thinking Yucky.
I think I am ill. I have been wandering around the house this evening feeling distressed and in dire need of a hug but not knowing why. After lemon tea and reflection I think I feel ill. There is a sneaking ache in my bones and my head periodically throbs and I have been entirely incapable of doing anything constructive all day. Thankfully my new silicon purchase has kept me otherwise occupied though in need of regular showers and a big glass of cranberry juice.
Yesterday I spent several hours in the fine company of Gemma from the famed Gempires. I was prepared to meet her lively mind and charming sense of humour but I was not at all prepared for the sheer force of her presence. She is powerful and charming and elegant. If I didn't love her so much I'd hate her.
I was in the toilets at The Townie furtively undertaking some major bra readjustments and trying to lower the skyline of my hair when a woman came through the door, pointed at me and leapt on me. Fortunately it was Gemma, her hair smells nice. Gemma is the second person to hug me since I've been single, people don't usually hug me because I am a bit prickly and awkward so I was entirely in love with her from the first moment.
The whole time I tried as hard as I could to keep my sensible hat on. I desperately wanted to go and ask a man in a kilt and horrible vest why on earth he thought that vest went with his kilt but I erred on the side of sensible and instead opted for drawing a helpful diagram of my vibrator with labels and arrows pointing out the various features. I engaged in some fretful leg swinging from my high stool to help counteract the no smoking location, this did not help but trips out to the balcony did.
I wanted to keep talking to Gemma. I wanted to steal her and install her somewhere where we could converse until I ran out of words and ears. I still feel like Anne of Green Gables, I only wish Gemma lived close enough to develop a secret system of candle flashes at the window.
I think I am ill. I have been wandering around the house this evening feeling distressed and in dire need of a hug but not knowing why. After lemon tea and reflection I think I feel ill. There is a sneaking ache in my bones and my head periodically throbs and I have been entirely incapable of doing anything constructive all day. Thankfully my new silicon purchase has kept me otherwise occupied though in need of regular showers and a big glass of cranberry juice.
Yesterday I spent several hours in the fine company of Gemma from the famed Gempires. I was prepared to meet her lively mind and charming sense of humour but I was not at all prepared for the sheer force of her presence. She is powerful and charming and elegant. If I didn't love her so much I'd hate her.
I was in the toilets at The Townie furtively undertaking some major bra readjustments and trying to lower the skyline of my hair when a woman came through the door, pointed at me and leapt on me. Fortunately it was Gemma, her hair smells nice. Gemma is the second person to hug me since I've been single, people don't usually hug me because I am a bit prickly and awkward so I was entirely in love with her from the first moment.
The whole time I tried as hard as I could to keep my sensible hat on. I desperately wanted to go and ask a man in a kilt and horrible vest why on earth he thought that vest went with his kilt but I erred on the side of sensible and instead opted for drawing a helpful diagram of my vibrator with labels and arrows pointing out the various features. I engaged in some fretful leg swinging from my high stool to help counteract the no smoking location, this did not help but trips out to the balcony did.
I wanted to keep talking to Gemma. I wanted to steal her and install her somewhere where we could converse until I ran out of words and ears. I still feel like Anne of Green Gables, I only wish Gemma lived close enough to develop a secret system of candle flashes at the window.
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Highway to the twilight zone
Take a ride into the twilight zone. You might like it there. You might like it better than the Yacht Rock karaoke party I once went to wearing a borrowed scarf tied around my head like a cartoon pirate. You might like it better than I like my cold room right now. I went to the pub and was then whisked off the streets of Newtown by Boli and over to The Hollywood in Surry Hills for a birthday party which I arrived at late, drunk and without a card or present. I stupidly ate only an english muffin all day before going to the pub and then drank three or four drinks more than drink limit before heading to a party in a pub with FREE DRINKS. Oh no! Oh yes!
I once again found myself in a roomful of academics only this time there was also a drag queen, not a very good one. She used the same sparkle liner for eyes and lips and had hideous open toe white contraption kind of shoes. I'm very fussy about my queens. She also had some sort of smock frock thing going on in a sort of splatter vomit pattern and was wearing a red boa that was clearly cheap and did not at all coordinate with the sparkle liner, the hideous white shoes or the smock frock. The sparkle liner was the multi-colour kind with a dark background. Very 1996.
There was one man that kept following me around the party and trying to talk to me. He was scary and tall in a bilious way. He was wearing a cream cable knit jumper under some foul "I found it under five dead rats and half a cheese cake" jacket. He had a massive digital camera strapped round his neck and Boli tells me he kept sneaking up behind people so he could hide from me and would then stick his head out and take photos of me. He lives in Canberra and has recently taken up theatre sports. Yucky. He said he was less than forty but I don't believe him. I forget what he reckons his name was. But why was he taking all those photos? This is getting weird. At the zine fair some odd man came up and asked if he could take my photo. I said ok so he lay down on the ground in front of me and pointed his massive camera up at a weird angle. I think he must have taken a photo of my knees.
I am not photogenic and wonder why this man kept taking my photo tonight. Why? and Yuck.
It was one of the Randwick belles birthday. She is forty! Forty! That's a very long time to be alive. I hope I die before I get old, I'm not trying to cause a big sensation. She looked happy and lovely. A whole pub full of people went just for her. I hope I am that lucky when I am forty.
I wanted to talk to Gemma for a bit longer. It takes me a while to say anything that matters, anything with depth or probative value. I'm sure she must think I am a hollow vessel, one content to sit or follow. A friend of hers showed up towards the end of our visit to The Townie and she scared me. She was young and violently beautiful like a horse or blown glass. She had a force and confident energy. She was the kind of woman that reduces me to a puffy tall being with empty speech bubbles over my head. It doesn't happen very often but I was already sitting on the edge of Gemma's powerful presence and feeling a little bit at sea. When the beautiful one started talking about where she came from, which is where I came from, the room darkened slightly and the ghost of Artboy made an appearance. If I could explode eight years of my life. If I could wake up tomorrow with no memories I would because all I have learned from giving your heart away is that you will end up alone in a room full of academics being photographed by a yucky man, staring at a bad drag queen and feeling quite drunk and sheepish for not bringing a lovely present with a card stuck on the front.
I once again found myself in a roomful of academics only this time there was also a drag queen, not a very good one. She used the same sparkle liner for eyes and lips and had hideous open toe white contraption kind of shoes. I'm very fussy about my queens. She also had some sort of smock frock thing going on in a sort of splatter vomit pattern and was wearing a red boa that was clearly cheap and did not at all coordinate with the sparkle liner, the hideous white shoes or the smock frock. The sparkle liner was the multi-colour kind with a dark background. Very 1996.
There was one man that kept following me around the party and trying to talk to me. He was scary and tall in a bilious way. He was wearing a cream cable knit jumper under some foul "I found it under five dead rats and half a cheese cake" jacket. He had a massive digital camera strapped round his neck and Boli tells me he kept sneaking up behind people so he could hide from me and would then stick his head out and take photos of me. He lives in Canberra and has recently taken up theatre sports. Yucky. He said he was less than forty but I don't believe him. I forget what he reckons his name was. But why was he taking all those photos? This is getting weird. At the zine fair some odd man came up and asked if he could take my photo. I said ok so he lay down on the ground in front of me and pointed his massive camera up at a weird angle. I think he must have taken a photo of my knees.
I am not photogenic and wonder why this man kept taking my photo tonight. Why? and Yuck.
It was one of the Randwick belles birthday. She is forty! Forty! That's a very long time to be alive. I hope I die before I get old, I'm not trying to cause a big sensation. She looked happy and lovely. A whole pub full of people went just for her. I hope I am that lucky when I am forty.
I wanted to talk to Gemma for a bit longer. It takes me a while to say anything that matters, anything with depth or probative value. I'm sure she must think I am a hollow vessel, one content to sit or follow. A friend of hers showed up towards the end of our visit to The Townie and she scared me. She was young and violently beautiful like a horse or blown glass. She had a force and confident energy. She was the kind of woman that reduces me to a puffy tall being with empty speech bubbles over my head. It doesn't happen very often but I was already sitting on the edge of Gemma's powerful presence and feeling a little bit at sea. When the beautiful one started talking about where she came from, which is where I came from, the room darkened slightly and the ghost of Artboy made an appearance. If I could explode eight years of my life. If I could wake up tomorrow with no memories I would because all I have learned from giving your heart away is that you will end up alone in a room full of academics being photographed by a yucky man, staring at a bad drag queen and feeling quite drunk and sheepish for not bringing a lovely present with a card stuck on the front.
July
Its July. Its a fucked month, here's why.
1. Man Embargo
No interacting with men outside work
I can answer the phone if someone calls and be polite but not volunteer any information about myself, answer questions only.
2. No buying anything except food and cat essentials, nothing, not a damn thing. Cigarettes are food.
3. This one is tricky to explain whilst drunk. I found a diary for films showing at a gallery in Queensland. I am going to schedule myself around this diary as though I was attending the events. When a film is showing I will be sitting at my desk writing a review of the film, even if I've never seen it.
This is the month of July, I'm one hour in and already I don't like it. Not one bit.
I met with Gemma of Gempires fame this afternoon. Drinks were drunk. I want to describe her but might leave it until after sleeping. Will say she has a kind of elegant tallness that I could never achieve despite being taller than her. Is very unfair that actual tallness does not equate to the feeling of tallness. Very.
1. Man Embargo
No interacting with men outside work
I can answer the phone if someone calls and be polite but not volunteer any information about myself, answer questions only.
2. No buying anything except food and cat essentials, nothing, not a damn thing. Cigarettes are food.
3. This one is tricky to explain whilst drunk. I found a diary for films showing at a gallery in Queensland. I am going to schedule myself around this diary as though I was attending the events. When a film is showing I will be sitting at my desk writing a review of the film, even if I've never seen it.
This is the month of July, I'm one hour in and already I don't like it. Not one bit.
I met with Gemma of Gempires fame this afternoon. Drinks were drunk. I want to describe her but might leave it until after sleeping. Will say she has a kind of elegant tallness that I could never achieve despite being taller than her. Is very unfair that actual tallness does not equate to the feeling of tallness. Very.
I like this blog
But I strongly suspect that Amy Saker is not who she says she is. The Rutherford Chronicles.
Its getting late
I am anxious, there is bile in this idea. There is a fluttering of bad things to come, I don't think I'm doing the right thing this thing this month of July, it feels like a walk down the wrong aisle. It feels like I'm in the wrong exam. I think I am pushing against the wrong walls. This is why I am definitely going to do it. I am the experiment. I am not searching for meaning. I am sitting in isolation twirling the ribbons of existence for no purpose. I am past existentialism, I am bored with nihilism, I'm walking the same old path with morris bells and a syncopated step.
Tonight I walked the streets of Newtown with an open heart but the crowds pushed it back in and held their hands against the pulsing. There are signs all over the streets, cover your heart, cover your mind, we don't want you here with your bells and ribbons and your sickening stench of hope. Dress your humanity in rubber boots and this grey jacket, dye your heart with thinners and comb back your hair. We don't like the way you look, at strangers.
Tonight I walked the streets of Newtown with an open heart but the crowds pushed it back in and held their hands against the pulsing. There are signs all over the streets, cover your heart, cover your mind, we don't want you here with your bells and ribbons and your sickening stench of hope. Dress your humanity in rubber boots and this grey jacket, dye your heart with thinners and comb back your hair. We don't like the way you look, at strangers.
Three things plus one more thing
1. I phoned Rupert, he wasn't home. Does this count as discharging my duty?
2. If I hear the word performitive/performative one more time I am going to vomit then twirl then die.
3. God bless the makers of silicon.
One more thing.
I am meeting up with Gemma of Gempires fame tomorrow afternoon. I am very excited, I feel like Anne of Green Gables. I hope she likes my hair.
2. If I hear the word performitive/performative one more time I am going to vomit then twirl then die.
3. God bless the makers of silicon.
One more thing.
I am meeting up with Gemma of Gempires fame tomorrow afternoon. I am very excited, I feel like Anne of Green Gables. I hope she likes my hair.
Results are in
Oh no. Looks I've got a phone call to make
The suggestions were.
1. Write a script.
2. Just have a wank.
3. All of the above.
and also
| Record myself then listen back, improve, repeat etc. | | 7.69% |  |
| Phone a phone sex service and ask the helpful phone sex worker. | | .69%7 |  |
| Phone random numbers and ask the person who answers. | | 30.77% |  |
| Phone Rupert and practice practice practice. | | 30.77% |  |
| Suggestions? | | 23.08% |  |
| No Response | | 0.00% |
The suggestions were.
1. Write a script.
2. Just have a wank.
3. All of the above.
and also
Every man I know
I am trying to phone every man I know before midnight on Saturday. I am trying to talk to every man I know because at midnight on Saturday it will begin. The new phase, the new experiment. From midnight on Saturday I won't be able to talk to any man, for a month.
I am desperate to talk to all the men I know but none of them are answering, not one, so if you are a man that I know pick up the damn phone and call me. Now. Please.
I am desperate to talk to all the men I know but none of them are answering, not one, so if you are a man that I know pick up the damn phone and call me. Now. Please.
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my advice re: phone sex - too long to put in the suffestions box of the poll
Don't call up a phone sex line! Because that is not real sex. It is bored woman paid to simulate sex. And the sex she is simulating is completely one-way, all about the man, and her pretending she wants whatever he wants. That's no fun. Good sex involves both people getting what they want. DOn't call up strangers because a) somebody's wife might think their husband is having an affair and b) you might accidentally call someone scary, and dangerous, someone with call ID (I have it on my landline) who might turn stalk-y. My advice (especially as you are presumably not going to be doing this during your man-free month, is to masturbate and imagine you are having perfect phone sex, so you get used to the idea, and you can figure out what you want. Also, you are a writer, yes? Can you write sex scenes? Cause talking is just writing said out loud. Maybe if you think of it like that it will be easier?
there are a couple of phone chat lines - telecafe is one, lavalife is another - which offer their service to female callers at the price of a local call (men pay through the nose, natch). try one of these. you can talk to as many men as you like - with complete anonymity - and most of them are either actively looking for, or would be delighted by the suggestion of, phone sex.
admittedly there are lots of thickheads on there, but it's still a fun, risk-free way to get your rocks off and practice talking to strange men about rumpo.
- venn d